Seventeen-year-old Krista must quickly figure out how she’s going to survive in the zombie-destroyed world. The one advantage humans have is that the zombies hate humid environments, so they’re migrating west to escape its deteriorating effects. The survivors plan to construct a wall at North Platte to keep the undead out, and Krista has come to Nebraska to start a new life.

Zombies aren’t the only creatures she has to be cautious of—the other survivors have a dark side. Krista must fight not only to live but also to defend everything she holds dear—her country, her freedom, and ultimately, those she loves.

Join Krista in her quest to survive in this thrilling apocalyptic novel by Pembroke Sinclair.

I will never understand peoples’ fascination with the
apocalypse. Why would you waste so much time and energy worrying about
something you can’t change? Besides, most of the time, it never comes to fruition,
anyway. Remember Y2K? I don’t. I was too young, but I’ve heard stories. What a
hullabaloo that was. People were so afraid of computers failing and throwing
society back into the Dark Ages, they stockpiled supplies and moved into the
wilderness so they could get away from technology. Why would they move to the
wilderness? If technology was going to fail, wouldn’t they be just as safe in a
city? I guess they were afraid when it did, everyone would go crazy and start
killing each other. Either way, it didn’t happen. I wonder how those people
felt afterward.

Then there was the whole 2012 scare. This one was supposedly
based on an ancient prediction, so you know it was reliable. Are you kidding?
Even the Mayans didn’t believe their own ancestors’ “vision.” What happened was
there had been a tablet that had the Mayan calendar carved into it. The end was
broken and faded, so no one knew what it said. Our culture, being the
pessimistic lot we are, automatically assumed it was an end-of-the-world
warning, but, again, nothing happened on December 21, 2012. Christmas came and
went, and I think everyone everywhere, even the skeptics, had a little
something more to be thankful for. Life went on as usual, and all those
doomsayers faded into obscurity.

The day the world did end was pretty nondescript. By that I
mean there was no nuclear explosion or asteroid or monumental natural disaster.
There weren’t even any horsemen or plagues to announce the end was coming. The
world ended fairly quietly. I couldn’t even give you a date because it happened
at different times depending on where you were. It was never predicted, and I’m
sure a scenario no one even considered. Who really thinks the dead are going to
rise from the grave and destroy the majority of the population? No one but Hollywood, and we all know those
are just movies, but that’s exactly what happened. Those of us who survived
were left wide-eyed, mouth agape, trying to figure out what to do next.

There were a few who were able to pull their heads out and
organize those left behind. They made sure the populace had food, shelter, and
protection. They were saviors, the United States’ heroes. Life wouldn’t have
gone on without them, and it was pretty difficult those first few years after
the zompocalypse.

Sometimes it’s difficult for me to remember what life was
like before the rise of the undead. I was a teenager, though I hesitate to say
normal. I wasn’t deformed or anything, but my classmates thought I was strange.
I had a fascination with the dark, the macabre, although I wasn’t a Goth or
Emo. I read books and magazines about serial killers. I didn’t idolize them or
want to be like them—hell no—I was fascinated with how evil and black a human’s
soul could get.

I wanted to be a psychologist and work with the criminally
insane, maybe figure out why they did what they did. Apparently, when you’re
fifteen, your friends think you’re weird if you have desires to help someone
other than yourself. While they were worried about becoming popular and getting
the right boyfriend, I tried to figure out how to make society better.

Of course, those dreams will never come true. Society
doesn’t exist. Everything I once held dear is gone. I lost my parents to the
horde, like a lot of kids. Unlike some of the others, mine weren’t taken by
surprise or in some freak accident. They were taken because of their own
stupidity. Some days I miss them a lot, but others I believe they got what they
deserved. I might sound callous and uncaring, but what about them? Why would
they abandon their fifteen-year-old daughter? It used to keep me up at night,
trying to find the answer to that question, but I’ve given up asking it. No
reason wasting time on things that could’ve or should’ve been.

As I stare out the passenger side window of the semi, I’m reminded
how bleak the future has become. The truck rolls down a once heavily traveled
highway that has been reduced to a cracked trail. Gas stations and towns
dotting the landscape have been abandoned and are crumpling into the weeds that
are taking them over. There are a few areas that still resemble pre-zombie
destruction, and these are the military outposts set up along the road, used
for protection and refueling. I use the term “military” loosely because there
is no formal military anymore. It’s a rag-tag group of men and women who were
lucky enough to get guns. I chuckle to myself. It’s been two years since I was
last out in the world, and a lot has changed since then. I still remember the
day the zombies attacked. It’s as clear as if it’d happened yesterday.

Jessica Robinson is an editor by day and a zombie-killer by night (at least in her books). Since the first time she watched Night of the Living Dead, she has been obsessed with zombies and often thinks of ways to survive the uprising. In addition to her nonfiction book, under the pen name Pembroke Sinclair, she has written YA novels about zombies and the tough teens who survive the apocalyptic world. She has also written nonfiction stories for Serial Killer Magazine and published a book about slasher films called Life Lessons from Slasher Films.

Georgia Clare needs help, and
fast. As the lone survivor of—and
witness to—her coven's brutal massacre, she's felt the killer hunting her. There's just one problem: the rest of San
Francisco's witching community wants nothing to do with her, and the one man
she can turn to doesn't do witches.

Darius deCompostela has done his
best to steer clear of subversive affairs.
A private investigator and reluctant medium, the last thing he wants is
to advertise his existence to the things that go bump in the night. But then Georgia knocks on his door, and try
as he might, he can't turn her away.

It's just one case, after
all. It's not like it's going to change
his life…

It was her third
night in a row of frozen pasta for dinner.
Not that she was counting.

Georgia popped
the top off yet another bottle of Corona and took a long draw. She leaned back against the counter. The microwave hummed behind her. She glanced over her shoulder at the digital
clock on the unused stove. Sighed.

Nearly six
o'clock, and still no sign of deCompostela.
The pang of disappointment in her chest chafed at her pride. She should have known better than to believe
he would stop by. He'd already made it
abundantly clear he thought she was out of her mind.

Truth be told,
the possibility had occurred to her. It
had been a week since the new moon, and she hadn't seen hide nor hair
of...it. Whatever it was. If not for the lingering scent of blood in
her nostrils, she could almost believe she'd hallucinated the whole thing.

The microwave
beeped. Georgia took one last drag of
beer, then set her bottle down next to the two that had preceded it and opened
the door. Fragrant steam rushed out; a
heady blend of tomato, basil, and MSG.

Georgia reached
in and grabbed the microwaveable plastic bowl, hissed and yanked her hand back
again. She scanned the kitchen for
something she could use as a potholder.
Finally, she settled on a bunched-up paper towel.

The hairs on the
back of her neck prickled as she pulled out the pasta bowl. Georgia tensed, turned...

...Just in time
to see her living room window explode inward in a hail of glass. She let out a startled shriek. A massive, dark creature suddenly occupied
the space where her coffee table used to sit.

Everything else
seemed to happen in slow-motion. The
creature straightened, shaking shards of glass off its dull black fur. Its ears twitched towards her. Its lips peeled back from its razor-sharp
teeth.

Georgia blindly
hurled her steaming pasta bowl in the direction of the living room and bolted
from the kitchen. She looked over in
time to see it connect with a loud splat squarely between the intruder's
eyes. The creature howled and clawed
desperately at its face.

Georgia didn't
wait for it to recover. Her altar. If she could just get to her altar, she could
banish the ugly fucker and buy herself some time.

The creature was
planted in the dead center of the straightest path across the living room. Georgia veered wide. She had almost cleared the front door when it
flew open in a barrage of splinters.
Someone barreled into her. They
both sprawled to the ground.

The new intruder
landed on top. Georgia hissed, bucked,
clawed at anything she could reach. Her
mystery assailant scrambled off her.

"Jesus
Christ, would you calm down, you crazy—what the f*ck?"

deCompostela. Georgia didn't let herself pause to feel
relief. She rolled to her feet, grabbed
his hand and dragged him after her. They
dove behind her sagging couch just as the creature regained its bearings. It threw back its head and let out a roar
that shook her remaining windows.

Darius
sniffed. "Is that tomato
sauce?"

Georgia didn't
answer. Her focus was squarely on her
altar again. It was still too far
away. "Wait here."

"What—"

She leaped to
her feet. The creature's eyes locked on
her. Georgia swallowed the terror that
welled in her chest and sprinted for the altar.
She skidded to the floor in front of it like a baseball player sliding
into home, yanked open one of the drawers and fumbled for the first items that
came to mind.

The creature
roared again. A blast of superheated air
hit the back of her neck. Georgia braced
for the feel of teeth around her throat.

"Right
here, ugly!"

She turned in
time to see Darius' massive fist catch the creature square in the nose. The creature yelped, then retaliated with a
swipe of an even-more-massive paw. The
blow swept Darius clear off his feet. He
flew backwards and hit the wall with a dull crunch, then sagged to the ground
with a wheeze. Flecks of paint and
drywall fluttered to the floor around him.

But he'd bought
her the time she needed. Georgia held up
her black candle and flicked her Bic lighter to life. She touched the flame to the wick. The creature's eyes widened.

"Black, the
color of protection. Black, the color of
night."

The creature
snarled. Darius heaved himself to his
feet and surged forward. He wrapped his
arms around the creature's hind legs and held tight.

"Black, the
color of silence. Black, the color of
stillness."

The creature swiped
at Darius again. Its paw caught empty
air where his head had been just seconds earlier. It tried to move. Darius' arms visibly tightened. Muscles bunched under his suit jacket.

"With black
I banish thee. With will I banish
thee." Georgia poured intent into her words. Her voice grew heavier, fuller. "Return to the night. Return to the silence. Return to the stillness. Be gone from this place."

The creature let
out a strange yelp-hiss as invisible forces compelled it to obey. Darius released it and scrambled backwards.

Georgia lifted
her chin. Magic crackled through her
veins, tinged her vision black. "Be
gone from this place," she repeated.
"With black and with will, by my power and by the power of the
Lady, I banish thee. So mote it
be." She blew out the candle.

The creature
vanished in a swirl of acrid black smoke.
Its final, infuriated roar echoed through the small apartment.

Georgia finally
allowed herself to breathe again. For
the first time, she realized she was coated in a fine film of glass and wood
slivers. She reached up to dust herself
off, at the last minute thought better of it.

Instead, she
turned to Darius. He had hauled himself
onto her sad excuse of a sofa. His hands
were planted on his knees. He stared at
the spot where the creature had last stood.

Georgia crossed
her arms and cleared her throat. She
waited until he looked up at her, then arched an eyebrow. "So.
Do you believe me now?"

About
the Author:

L.J.K. Oliva is the
devil-may-care alter-ego of noir romance novelist Laura Oliva. She likes her
whiskey strong, her chocolate dark, and her steak bloody. L.J.K. likes
monsters… and knows the darkest ones don’t live in closets.

Is the love of a bad man as fulfilling as that of a good man—if he’s good to you?

The fantasy for most women is the happily ever after, the white knight or the prince charming. Or maybe they imagine the hero swoops in to save them from their mundane existence. But what happens if you catch the attention of the villain instead? Tiffany aka Karma is about to find out…

Karma isn’t just a name; it’s a way of life for an exotic dancer with a taste for vigilante justice. She should have been more careful though, because her deeds haven’t gone completely unnoticed. A man who isn’t quite human, with the predilection for destruction, has set his sights on her. His brand of love is tainted…twisted, and Karma is powerless to resist.

His muddy gaze slid over me with disdain
and his lips curled up into a sneer. “You really didn’t think I was going to
let you get away with that, did you?”

Internally I was trying to quickly come
up with a plan. I wasn’t some preternaturally gifted being of some sort, not
that those existed. Sure I took martial arts and self-defense but...in real
life being about a foot shorter than this guy put me at a huge disadvantage. I
usually used surprise...and weapons to even those kinds of odds. I was lacking
both of those at the moment. I donned the best fake smile I could muster. “Get
away with what? I told you I’m not for sale. You got what you paid for.”

The kid’s eyes narrowed and hostility
rolled off of him in waves. “You led me on. You made me think—”

“I never led you on for even a second.
You paid for and I gave you time in the private room with me where you received
a very up close and personal dance that lasted the span of a few songs. I told
you before, my sexual favors aren’t for sale. Whatever you’ve heard about me or
any of the other girls at Club Elite is a lie. This isn’t that kind of place.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and attempted to make it seem like he wasn’t
intimidating me. How the hell did he get past the security downstairs and
know where to find me?

He rushed at me, letting me know that
our little tête-à-tête was over. I dropped my bag and made myself ready. I
can do this. Just pretend— My inner pep talk was cut off as I was tackled
to the ground and all the air left my lungs. I strained my neck muscles to keep
the impact on my head as little as possible. I tried to bring my knee up
between his legs but he was already pinning me with his full body weight. I
head butted him instead. My forehead made contact with his nose and he screamed
in tandem with the loud crunching noise the blow made. Blood spurted everywhere
and he rolled off of me. He recovered more quickly than I expected and stars
danced in front of my eyes when his fist connected with the side of my face. I
collapsed onto my back and blinked dazedly. Taking a full out punch was
something I’d never done before. It didn’t feel good, to say the least, and it
was more difficult to shake off than people in movies always made it seem.

AUTHOR BIO:

D.T. Dyllin is a bestselling author who writes both paranormal and contemporary romance. Anything with a love story is her kryptonite. Her obsession with affairs-of-the-heart is what first drove her to begin twisting her own tales of scorching romance.

D.T. was born and raised in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. (Black & Gold for life, baby!) She now lives in Little Rock, Arkansas with her husband and two spoiled German Shepherds.

Jenna McNally is tending to the
heartrending task of clearing out her grandfather’s cabin when she’s knocked
off her feet by the impact of a nearby plane crash. She races into the snowy
North Carolina woods to help and discovers that this is no plane that’s
crashed.

Ra’kur’s people have been brought
to the brink of extinction by war. After years spent searching for a compatible
mate to bond with, an enemy attack lands him on a backward, primitive planet
and right to the very female he has been seeking. And a Hir warrior’s first
task in claiming a mate is to capture her . . .

In the next
instant Jenna stumbled, falling onto her hands and knees as the cabin itself
seemed to be lifted up a bit before being slammed back down in a puff of dust,
the books and boxes and Pap’s many doohickeys rattling around her.

She was gasping,
her ears still ringing as the cabin settled into quiet again. Shaking, Jenna
eased back onto her haunches, her hand going to the little golden bird charm
that hung on a chain around her neck.

Earthquake?

Quakes were rare
in this part of North Carolina, and besides, she’d felt that tremble, that
rumbling, beneath her feet a few times out west and this was nothing like that.

Jenna’s glance
darted about the room—the half-packed boxes, the groupings she’d made as she
sorted her grandfather’s things into piles of stuff to keep or give away or
throw out. Through the cabin’s front window, she caught sight of a far-off
spray of snow thrown high into the air and now falling rapidly to the
ground.

When she’d
fallen, she’d dropped the framed photo of her and Pap standing in front of The
Sweet Tooth on opening day. Thankfully it hadn’t broken, but the faded oval rag
rug had done little to protect her knees from the fall and her palms felt raw
and scraped.

Shakily Jenna
placed the picture on the coffee table, put a hand on the worn red and black
plaid sofa, and, wincing, got to her feet. Her right knee was likely going to
sport a nasty bruise tomorrow but the couple steps across the living room to
the window assured her that would be the worst of it. She frowned out at the
sunny, snow-covered landscape, her breath fogging up the windowpane.

Plane crash, maybe?

There was a tiny
airport not far from here. Recently built and meant for small craft—a few of
the new, wealthy residents of Brittle Bridge used it when they didn’t want to
go to Six Oaks—it was little more than a runway and a couple hangars.

Jenna scanned
the woods, looking for smoke, but even the snow had settled now and the
mountain seemed peaceful as ever. It took her a moment to realize that the TV
that she’d had on to keep her company while she tended to the heartrending task
of packing up Pap’s things had gone dark. A quick look at the blinking red
light showed the Wi-Fi was out too.

No satellite, no
Internet.

“Great,” she
muttered, rubbing her forehead with her fingertips. Thinking she could get by
fine with just her cell she’d made the mistake of having the landline cut off
last week before she realized her fancy—and expensive—new phone didn’t work
inside the cabin. Outside, sure. Go twenty feet or sit in the SUV and the
damned thing worked perfectly.

Jenna chewed the
inside of her cheek. She hadn’t seen anything except the now-resettled spray of
snow but if it were a downed plane then someone could be hurt out there. It got
dark around five this time of year so there were a few hours of daylight left
at least and she knew these woods better than anyone—excepting her grandfather,
of course.

She grabbed her
cell off the coffee table and in a few moments had her white down jacket
zipped, the hood yanked up, and her gloves on. She was already wearing her
sheepskin boots; the cabin floor sometimes felt cold to her even in the summer
and now in January it was bitterly so.

Jenna drew in
the bracing smell of snow and pine as she stepped onto the porch and shut the
front door behind her. She was careful going down the cabin’s front steps;
she’d slipped often enough on them over the years to remember to hold the
handrail in winter. The soft powdery snow crunched under her boots as she
walked and, as expected, three steps past her SUV the cell had reception again.

She scrolled
through the numbers to the right one and hit “Dial” as she headed in the
direction where she’d seen the snow spray.

“Sheriff’s
Department.”

“Sarah Jane?
It’s Jenna McNally.”

“Hey there,
Jenna, you okay?” Sarah Jane had once been a model, or so Pap had said. Got her
heart broke by a famous artist in New York and fled to Brittle Bridge to escape
it all.

But then again, he’d
made up stories about everyone with Jenna—the mayor was in the witness
protection program, her teacher was a secret agent. She’d been labeled a
“sensitive child” by the social worker who had handled the transfer of custody
to him. Of course to Pap “sensitive” meant “creative” so he’d gone all out in
encouraging her in all of it—the arts and music, crafting, baking—anything she
wanted to try, and he was proud as punch to let her.

But if Sarah
Jane had been a model, it was thirty-five years ago or more now and twenty
since she joined the sheriff’s department. “You up at Pap’s still?”

Her
grandfather’s name was William James McNally. But it had probably been since
before Sarah Jane’s supposed model-artist affair days that he had been called
anything other than “Pap” in the vicinity of Brittle Bridge—at least never in
the twenty-six years Jenna had known him.

Well, excepting
that social worker.

“Yeah, I’ll be
here for a couple more days,” Jenna said, already past the clearing around the
house and into the forest. “Listen, I think a plane crashed up here on our”—she
swallowed hard—“my land.”

“A plane?” Sarah
Jane’s voice went from neighborly to official. “Where did it come down?”

“Not sure.”
Jenna ducked under a branch as she headed deeper into the woods. “I heard
something real loud and then it was like ‘bam,’ something hitting the ground
hard. Shook the whole place.”

“Can you see
smoke from where you are now?”

“No,” Jenna
admitted, trotting along as fast as the snow would allow her. Some of the
drifts were deep and she had to mind where she stepped. She wouldn’t be doing
anyone any good if she broke her ankle. “I’m heading out to take a look now.”

“But you saw the
plane go down?”

“Uh, no.” Sarah
Jane’s too-patient tone was starting to make her feel a little embarrassed for
calling when she hadn’t actually seen anything. Maybe it was something else: a
really big tree falling or a damn meteorite or something.

“Huh,” Sarah
Jane said. “Lemme call around and see if anybody’s gone missing. But you call
me straight off if you find anything, ’kay?”

“Sure thing.”
Jenna ended the call and slipped the phone into her jacket pocket. Whatever
crashed couldn’t be far from where she’d seen the snow spray up.

Forced by the
lack of schools and friends for his young granddaughter, Pap had kept the house
in Asheville, but they’d come to Brittle Bridge at every opportunity. Pap’s
heart was here and she’d happily spent the summer days running barefooted in
these woods clad in overalls, her chestnut hair in pigtails at first, then tied
back in a ponytail as she got older.

Her stride
faltered and she steadied herself against a pine, the rough trunk pulling on
her knitted glove. Pap’s beloved woods were quiet and bright around her but
Jenna suddenly had a strong urge to run back to the cabin.

She set her jaw
and pressed on. Pap hadn’t raised her to be a coward and this was her land now.
He’d left her five hundred acres and anyone on it without her say-so was
trespassing, even if it was about to go up for sale.

Still, she
wished she’d thought to grab Pap’s revolver or rifle or even his hunting knife
before she’d come racing down here.

I’ll go as far
as the creek and if I don’t find anything I’ll head on back.

But all was
quiet at the creek too, the crystal clear water moving placidly between the
banks—

Jenna stopped
short. There was tang to the air, a burned smell that wrinkled her nose. It
reminded her a little bit of the inside of a mechanic’s garage, out of place in
such pristine woods.

It smelled
wrong. Not only that…

There’s no snow
here.

There was snow
all around, covering the ground, hanging heavy in the tree limbs above, but
here there was just a long patch of mud and broken sticks.

The sudden sick
feeling of being watched raised the tiny hairs on the back of her neck. With a
shock of awareness she realized just how very vulnerable she was out here,
alone and unarmed.

Pap hadn’t
raised her to be an idiot either. With trembling fingers she pulled her phone
out and hit redial to the Sheriff’s office.

In horrified
disbelief she watched the screen flash “Connection failed.”

She took a step
back and searched the silent, still forest.

All I have to do
is make it back up to the house. I can get the gun, get my car keys, call for
help, get the hell out of here!

Her quickened
breath was visible as she headed uphill back toward the cabin, the drifts and
her fear slowing her down. She couldn’t remember if the ammunition was still in
the kitchen cabinet or if she’d moved it to—

Something off to
her right gave a soft, deep growl . . .

Taken

Warriors
of Hir

Book
Two

Willow
Danes

Genre: Science Fiction Romance /

Paranormal Erotica

Publisher: Here Be Dragons

Date of Publication: February 1,
2015

ISBN-10: 0692377735

ISBN-13: 978-0692377734

ASIN: B00T0VFO8S

Number of pages: 271

Word Count: 69,000

Cover Artist: Steven James
Catizone

Book Description:

Hope MacGowan is a city girl but
reeling from a break-up on top of a layoff has her determined to have a weekend
away in the North Carolina mountains—even if all her friends have bailed at the
last minute. Hope’s life is one big train-wreck and getting kidnapped by a
tall, blond alien—even a gorgeous one—sure isn’t helping.

R’har crossed the galaxy to seek
a mate on this newly discovered world and this delicate red-haired female is
everything he’s dreamed of—except happy to find herself mated to him. R’har
knows in his heart he’s her true mate, even if he’s not human. But taking her
doesn’t mean he can keep her and somehow he has to convince Hope to choose him
before time runs out . . .

“Did you know?”
Hope asked again. Her cell pressed hard to her ear, her heart in her throat as
she waited for her friend’s answer, she had a sudden urge to open the car
window and hurl the damned thing into the road before Keri could reply. “Did
you know about Brian and Megan?”

Through the
phone she heard Keri sigh and Hope’s grip tightened on the steering wheel, the
center diamond of her engagement ring sparkling in the sunlight.

Parked in front
of the diner where she was to pick up the rental’s keys, Hope blinked out at
Brittle Bridge, North Carolina’s quaint Main Street. Outside her car, people
strolled about on their Friday morning errands, enjoying the May sunshine and
the sweet mountain air, chatting and laughing.

Inside the car,
Hope’s breath had the quick shallow pant of an animal caught in a trap.

“You’re my
friend. You went with me to look at venues, at wedding gowns. You bought a
bridesmaid’s dress.” Hope’s throat tightened. “Megan bought a maid of honor
dress!”

“I didn’t
actually buy the dress,” Keri mumbled. “I called the boutique after we left and
asked them to cancel my order.”

But that was
back in March!

“How long?” Hope
asked, her voice high and tight. “How long has it been going on? How long have
you known?”

Keri sighed
again. “I went to Gable’s with some people from work back in January and I saw
Brian and Megan in a booth in the back and they were—It’s probably been going
on longer though.”

“January? But—”
Hope began, her tone pleading now as if she could argue this away, as if to
point out the faulty logic of it would cast a spell and make everything right
again. “But we got engaged on Valentine’s Day! He asked me to marry him on
Valentine’s Day. If he and Megan were—” Her eyes stung. “He broke our
engagement by text, you know. He sent me a text today to tell me that he and
Megan were together and how very, very sorry he was. Megan texted to say she’s
sorry too—Oh, and since she’s not coming for the weekend she’s not going to pay
her third for the rental.”

“Oh, that is
shitty,” Keri said.

Shitty as
letting me plan a wedding when you knew all along Megan was fucking my fiancé?

But the great
burden of red hair was everyone expected you to have a bad temper and a sharp
tongue. Hope had spent most of her twenty-seven years showing the world how
even-keeled she was, how she could handle anything with a cool head, not raging
or weeping even in the face of heartbreak and grief, not letting anyone know
how bad she hurt.

Those walls went
up when she was eight and were so thick now that nothing—not the death of her
parents, not the humiliation of her fiancé screwing her maid of honor—was going
to bring them down.

“Yeah, it is,”
Hope said instead. “So when were you going to get around to telling me that you
aren’t coming for the weekend either?”

“Look, I just
thought if you and Megan were alone—maybe the truth would finally come out.
Being with the two of you and pretending I didn’t know sucked.”

“Wow.” Hope
nodded even though Keri couldn’t see her. Even a determined redhead had her
limits. “That must have been really rough on you.”

Keri went silent
again.

Hope put her
hand over her eyes, blocking out the cheerful spring sunlight. “I lost my job
this morning.”

“What?” Keri sounded
startled for the first time during their conversation.

“They made the
announcement today. They sold the company to the Hindle Group last week and
they had one too many graphic designers so they let me go. They made me drive
all the way to Asheville to give me the news. My fiancé ends it in a text but
my company had to tell me in person.”

“Jesus . . .”

“They gave me
three months’ severance. And they shook my hand too. Apparently someone in the
D.C. office did me the favor of clearing out my stuff while I was driving to
Asheville yesterday so I’m all packed up. They’ll have everything delivered to
my apartment by the end of the day.”

“So you’re
driving back to D.C. tonight?”

“What for?” Hope
asked bleakly. “Brian and Megan are at his place, making the most of the
romantic curtained bed I bought. I don’t have work on Monday. No fiancé, no
best friend, no job. My apartment lease is up in ten days and now I won’t be
moving in with Brian. Maybe I’ll just move up here to the mountains. Take up
wood crafting or something.”

“Call me when
you get back,” Keri urged. “I’ll take you out and get you drunk. We’ll find you
someone new.”

“No. I’m
cursed.” Hope shut her eyes. “No one on the planet has worse luck with men than
I do.”

Keri was smart
enough not to argue that point. “I really am sorry.”

“Yeah, me too,”
Hope said and hung up.

She turned off
the car and sat there, the cell cradled in her lap. The invitations hadn’t gone
out yet so she didn’t need to work through the guest list; with her parents
both dead and no siblings there was no one left to call.

No one at all.

Stolen

Warriors
of Hir

Book
Three

Willow
Danes

Genre: Science Fiction Romance /

Paranormal Erotica

Publisher: Here Be Dragons

Date of Publication: July 28,
2015

ISBN-10: 0692500820

ISBN-13: 978-0692500828

ASIN: B012UW5YKG

Number of pages: 265

Word Count: 68,000

Cover Artist: Steven James
Catizone

Book Trailer:

Book Description:

Kidnapped from Earth by an alien
warrior when she visits her uncle, Summer Mills is terrified she will never be
able to return home. Her alien captors are using human females as breeding
stock and her only chance to return to Earth is Ke’lar, the one Hir warrior
willing to stand between her and his own kind.

Returning this human female home
won’t be easy and Ke’lar knows by this act of defiance he is throwing his own
chances at a lifemate away. Both his family’s enemies and his own clan have
pledged to reclaim the woman he has stolen, the only woman he will ever love .
. .

The alien
warrior, naked beside her, gave a soft snore, his thickly muscled arm thrown
over Summer, keeping her close as he slumbered.

When he had
first captured her on Earth, she had only seen beast—his full mouth, his
gleaming fangs, his inhuman ridged forehead and heavy brow. Now, lying beside
him, his bare tan skin smooth and warm against her own, his eerie glowing amber
eyes shut, she knew how very intelligent he was, this wild creature who had
brought her to his planet. He, like all the males of his kind—the g’hir—was
tall, powerfully built, fast as quicksilver.

Summer wet her
lips. She could see the movement of his eyes behind his lids.

Dreaming.

She’d never get
a better chance.

Escaping a
seven-foot-tall alien warrior who’s claimed you as his mate and taken you
halfway across the galaxy is impossible.

But when it’s
your only chance in hell of ever seeing home again, you just tell “impossible”
to fuck off.

Six days after
her abduction, her heart hammering so hard she feared the sound of it would
wake the warrior at her side, Summer eased out from under his heavily muscled
arm and slid from his bed.

He stirred,
reaching for her. She froze, crouching beside the bed, praying his vibrant eyes
stayed shut, his face slack with slumber. His long, silky, red-brown hair was
spread across the white pillow, his swarthy coloring a stark contrast to her
own pale complexion.

When she’d first
awoken to find herself captive on his ship he’d looked her over with his
unnervingly brilliant alien gaze. He’d taken a lock of her pale blond hair
between his large fingers, frowned at her skin, and asked if such pallor in a
human meant she was sickly. Trembling before the huge warrior, thinking he’d
kill her if he thought her ill, not even understanding how she was processing
those growls of his as language—Summer swore she was completely healthy. He’d
given a satisfied fanged smile; pleased, she knew now, that she’d be able to
produce the robust, healthy offspring he wanted.

The
warrior—Ar’ar—gave another soft snore and Summer straightened to standing.

Clad only in a
whisper-thin nightgown, the polished tiles cold under her feet, she padded
silently through his luxurious quarters. Sweet spring air drifted through the
open balcony doors, the fine silk curtains fluttering in the breeze as she
passed them.

The balcony of
Ar’ar’s rooms—the opulent living quarters of a clanfather’s heir—overlooked his
family’s vast holdings, and the three moons of his world—Hir—lit her way. The
wind stirred her long hair, momentarily blocking her vision, and impatiently
Summer tucked the bright strands behind her ears to keep them out of her eyes.

She had one
chance at this.

If they caught
her she’d be watched constantly no matter what concessions Ar’ar—her new alien
“mate”—made to his female’s pleas. He was confident enough, and proud enough,
that he had dismissed the honor guards his father, Mirak, tried to attach to
her. Ar’ar gave a huffing, indulgent laugh as he’d waved them off at her
request. After all, compared to him, Summer, even at five foot nine, was just a
slip of thing.

A weak,
harmless, helpless human female . . .

Using the
building to help her balance, she climbed up to stand on the balcony’s wall.

Eight stories
above the ground of an alien world.

Summer swallowed
hard. There was a reason she always insisted on having a room on the first
floor of a hotel. Just glancing out the glass-wall window of her high-rise
office back home left her woozy.

But there was
only one way out into the hallway—and ultimately to Earth—that wouldn’t wake
the glowing-eyed fanged warrior snoozing back there. She had to get from these
quarters over to the unoccupied rooms beside them. That door she could open
without fear of waking him, then get the hell out of this monstrously large
building they called a clanhall and run for freedom.

It wasn’t even
very far over. Twelve feet, maybe.

All she had to
do was get to the next balcony.

Never mind that
the only way there was a small decorative outcropping on the side of the
building barely as wide as her foot . . .

This special piece was used as the model for the necklace in the novel "Captured."

A precious little bird dangling from 14k gold filled chain. The petite 14k gold dipped charm is beautifully detailed, and finished with a soft matte finish. The pendant slides freely from side to side on chain.

A lovely and minimal piece made of high quality material suitable for everyday wear. Looks great on it's own and layers well with other delicate pieces.